Finding You
by transcendencesofcadence
Summary: There was always something coming, whether it be a bat to the head or a kiss to his cheek, Mickey Milkovich could almost always see it coming. But he never expected this flash of red. This flash of red that, now that he's found it, he couldn't ever see himself able to go without. "Pilot" chapter up, let me know if ya'll would like to see more!
1. Before You

There had been two others before Ian Gallagher. Two other men, and countless women. The women were always the same, they were hasty and some tried to cuddle afterward, their much-too-soft arms draped across his chest as they loudly breathed in his ear while his eyes remained glued to the ceiling, the gnawing feeling of want still settled uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

That feeling never went away when he slept with girls. He could fuck them any which way he pleased, which was typically doggy style, with no desire to look at their much-too-made up faces and instead have the ability to do what he came to do. Most of the time he invited a girl over in the middle of the night, after his dad had passed out drunk on the couch. The girl would coo over him from the moment she walked in the door, often times they tried to appear just as hard and coarse as Mickey did as though that would make him not kick their ass out as soon as he got what he wanted. Rather, what he needed.

But even when the seemingly tough chicks with much-too-soft arms and much-too-made up faces left, the gnawing feeling of want didn't walk out the door behind them. It remained in the room, choking Mickey with the most humid of emotions as he found himself flipping through his phone again, and again, looking for someone else who might take this reality and make some sense of it.

Peter Francis was the first person to make sense of the now dull ache that Mickey carried with him. The two had detention together in their eighth grade year, for reasons that Mickey couldn't remember now let alone could he then, he was just used to having an extra hour of sitting in a desk after the final bell had rung for the day. Peter sat behind him and would occasionally sneak him sticks of gum, and he would routinely walk to the front of the empty classroom to throw something in a trashcan. Mickey would think nothing of it until he stood up from his desk and discovered there was an additional trashcan directly next to where Pete would be sitting. Mickey was still staring at it as the slightly taller blonde boy shoved his shoulder on his way out the door. This broke the brunette's concentration and his eyes flickered to see Peter shrugging his backpack over his arm, exiting the classroom. But not before turning his head just slightly and grinning back at the young Mick.

Pete was Mickey's first. They did it behind the sector of garbage cans in the back of the football field near the cross-street of their high school. They were freshmen then, and Mickey couldn't remember a time he had felt more carefree. They would roll dice under the bleachers during organized sporting events that neither of them really cared for and would shove each other into lockers in-between classes, only to be kissing in an empty bathroom stall just before anyone got to campus the following morning. Pete told Mickey he loved him in a gum wrapper, written like chicken scratch in three simple letters, and Mickey said it back by smiling at him from across the classroom.

Pete was jumped by a group of seniors one morning on his way to school. For no reason other than the fact that they didn't like the way he walked. The seniors broke his orbital socket with a tire iron, they kicked in a number of his ribs and brought his head into the pavement so many times that the only way someone would be able to recognize him is if they pulled his school ID out of his wallet. Which is just what a freshman was forced to do as he saw the boys running in the opposite direction, screaming about how "Somebody will see" and "Let's go, damnit, run!"

The only person who knew about the boy's romance was a teacher, she had signed up as a detention supervisor a few months prior and entered the room to find the two boys whispering to one another and grinning mischievously, only to snap out of their trance and sink into their seats at the moment that her presence was known. That same teacher came to the door of Mickey's homeroom class and asked if she could please excuse Michael for a moment, which the brunette hesitantly responded to by slinging his backpack over his shoulder and exiting the classroom. The teacher sighed a heavy sigh as she wrung her sweating hands and Mickey found himself gnawing at the bottom of his lip, suddenly finding himself wishing that Peter wasn't late as he really wanted a piece of gum.

"There's been an accident…" She started.

After that day, Mickey would occasionally stop by their house nearly every day with some video games and a daisy or two shoved in his sweater pocket, and once his parents had left the room he would be at Peter's side, kissing his face and telling him "I'm so sorry, so fucking sorry." For everything that had happened despite it being completely out of his control. Pete's eyes stayed fixated on the ceiling, a bandage around his head where his striking blonde hair used to be. His breathing controlled by what looked like an inflatable bag in the upper right hand corner of the room, Mickey's eyes steadily wetting the shirt he had seen Pete wear for the last several days.

Peter and his family moved, Peter was never the same. The last time he saw Pete was when his mother was wheeling him into a moving van along with all of their furniture and a dozen boxes. "There's a hospital, it's good for him, and it's good for us." But Mickey didn't fucking care what was good for him, he wanted him here, with him. He knew that was selfish and he understood that he was young but fuck it, he was in love and he didn't want to have to admit that but he would. He muttered the words "I love you" against the harsh wind of a Chicago storm as the moving van pulled away from the vacant house and drove off into the impending winter.

At the end of the school year, Mickey committed his first crime, a small burglary that still wound up giving him some time. This is where he met the second. Larry. He didn't know his last name, never wanted to. This was the guy who got him through the summer before his sophomore year, the summer he spent in and out of juvi. If Larry went in, it was only hours before Mick was breaking a window in order to get in there with him. Larry fucked him up against cold pavement with such distaste and lack of want but Mickey didn't care, his arms were strong and his face was scarred and it looked nothing like Pete's, so he just let it happen until the day that Larry was locked up for longer than Mickey could stomach going in for, and Mickey went back to the life he was expected to be living, as a straight thug from Southside Chicago, with a gnawing feeling of want living in him like some sort of sickness, refusing to leave no matter how many times he attempted to fill the void.


	2. Something More

Chicago winters were notorious for biting the citizens as soon as they left their homes. Scarves, jackets, and an onslaught of mittens and beanies did nothing when it came to protecting a person against the harsh realness of the weather. Mickey's heart seemed to have collected a similar coldness over the years, he was eighteen now and no amount of sun nor clothing proved able to keep the rushing torrents of wind and biting cold from the closeted chambers of the Milkovich's heart.

"You got any Slim Jims in this shithole?" This was the second time Mickey would be seeing Ian Gallagher in a way other than just a clerk at the local towelhead's convenience store. The first time was when the same redhead, hair and eyes ablaze with the same fiery color, poking him in the back with a goddamn tire iron, ranting on about wanting the gun back. Mickey had given the impression he'd give it back without a fight, knowing Ian was far too naïve to think he'd give up so easily. In a matter of thrown fists and small hands shoving strong chests, Mickey had a knee on either side of Ian's arms and was holding the tire iron above his head, completely reversing the position that they were just in moments before.

Their eyes locked and in that moment, all thoughts of the gun exhaled through Mickey's mouth with a sharp and painful breath. The tire iron struck the floor with a loud clang that the brunette had no intention of covering up incase his Dad were to hear and wake from his drunken stupor. No, he had more important things to take care of. Things like this redhead underneath him and the way his eyes were widening and his heart rate quickening under the pressure of Mickey's knee. All at once, hands were pulling at much too restricting clothing and blankets were being thrown, the two of them making muffled grunts and murmuring words that neither one of them would try to understand for at that moment, it was just some twink fucking some Southside thug, nothing more, nothing less.

Mickey's showing up to the Kash and Grab changed the dynamic slightly. As Ian braced himself behind the older boy, his hands gripping pale and exposed flesh, the older boy muttering "Get this over with" along with a number of other obscenities under his breath as Ian finally penetrated the barrier between the outside world and the place Mickey had been craving him most. Muffled curse words became chants as Ian's hips slammed into his, again and again, "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Could be heard vibrating off of cold jugs of milk and an assortment of frozen pizzas that surrounded them in the little haven that they had chosen in the back of the store.

When it was over, Mickey wrapped his scarf around his neck and stepped into the cold, cold air once more. Ian said nothing, wringing his hands in front of him as he watched the slightly shorter boy disappear across the street and through the alley, before stepping back into his place of work and turning the sign that read "Be back in twenty" over so that the store was once again open for business.

They would meet up in secluded places, like the van that was abandoned outside of the Gallagher's house, or at the community pool in the middle of the night, behind the bleachers of their high school just before the crack of dawn, when the sprinklers were dying down and the frost was beginning to take hold of the dewy blades of grass. Each time, no words would be said, simply an acknowledgement of what was going to happen, and the act itself.

There was a night when they had chosen to meet up in a boxcar just off of the Chicago shoreline's edge. The water was frozen for about five feet out and the wind was just seemingly as angry with the world as the citizens of Chicago were with it. Mickey arrived, stumbling a bit, a large belch passing through his lips as he clambered into the box car, a can of beer crushed in his large fist and thrown into the shadows. Ian hadn't quite arrived yet, so the other boy took some time to kick around a number of broken hay bales, organizing the straw into one corner so that there was room for the activities that would soon take place. He was feeling the last couple of beers and a mixed drink or two that he had slammed down in anticipation before making the trek to their meeting spot, so when Ian finally poked his head through the open door and whispered "Mick?" The first word he had really said to the brunette in a number of days. Mostly it was just curse words through gritted teeth and a mumbled "See ya" after the fact.

"In here, assface."

"That's sweet, Mick. You know I love your pet names." Ian said as he pulled himself up onto the floor of the car with ease.

"Fuck off." Mickey shouted from the darkness. Ian fished for a small flashlight in his pocket and flicked it on, waving it in the direction of where he thought he heard the voice, "Over here, jerkoff."

"Again with the petnames-" Ian's retort was cut short when the light settled on the hunched figure in the corner. Mickey was bending over a bay of hale, his hands working to build what appeared to be a bed of sorts, pressing different stalks together to lay across the floor and pushing them up against the wall, "What's this?" Ian bit back a small laugh.

"Just making it so my knees aren't bleeding by the time this is over with." Mickey clapped the dust off of his hands and stood back to admire his handiwork, he looked over his left shoulder back at the redhead as he came out of the darkness and into the strip of moonlight that shone through a crack in the boxcar's ceiling. Grunting, he said, "Don't get your panties all torn up, this is for my benefit." He threw a punch back at the redhead's ribs and Ian stepped back, laughing and holding his side.

Mickey laughed and turned to face the redhead, his top teeth gently gnawing on his bottom lip. Ian took two steps too close and was nearly towering over the slightly older man, his eyes flicked from laughter to desire like a shutter of a camera. Mickey's eyes were the same dark, empty, and surprisingly lit up that they always had been. However, the two of them shared a mutual acknowledgement that this was the most the two of them had spoken in, well, however long they had lived in the same shithole part of Chicago together.

"Dude," Mickey broke eye contact before discomfort took hold, Ian noticed his awkward shuffle to the partly made bed and followed suit, unbuckling his belt and moving to undo the buttons on his flannel, "Let's get this over with." Mickey muttered as he too pulled down his own pants and turned his back to Ian, his knees settling in the scratchy straw.

Ian smiled to himself and took his place behind the brunette, reminding himself like a quick stab in the gut that this was likely all they'd ever be, fucking Southside opposites who snuck away in the dark of the night for one thing and one thing only. The faintest glimmer of hope went out like a candle's flame in this goddamn Chicago winter as Ian once again broke the barrier between enemies and something more.

Mickey braced himself and steadied his breathing as he felt the redhead move his hips against his backside. His eyes flickered shut and he ground his teeth against one another, his hand gripping a handful of the yellow straw. He was just starting to relish in the idea that this was just what he needed when Ian's hand managed to find his own in the dark, and a switch turned on in Mickey that had his subconscious suddenly craving something more.


	3. Cold Dark Want

There was a moment when Ian Gallagher's mouth was pressed up to Mickey's ear, when he was breathing this wet, hot breath and murmuring things that weren't necessarily words but also not necessarily sounds. Mickey raised his head from the cold table that he had it pressed to and raised his eyes to the ceiling, his bare chest colliding with the table that Ian was pummeling his body into behind him. In and out, as erratic and unsynchronized as the breath coming from Mickey's lungs. His voice caught on a wave of passion as he lurched forward, his lips just barely curling up at the edges in the form of a smile as he felt the redhead spill into him and the pressure from the cold metal against his chest began to lessen. Soon, the redhead pulled away altogether and Mickey felt himself slightly whimpering for the loss of contact. He caught himself before the sounds could be heard and pulled at the jeans that pooled around his ankles, quickly pulling them up as if ashamed by the body the Ian had clearly just seen in full view.

"That's the funny thing about fucking-" Ian started, a cigarette dangling from his lips, "We are so apt to get the clothes off and as soon as the deed is done, we act like" He edged closer to Mickey who was busy fixing his belt loops when he looked up to find Ian's nose nearly colliding with his. Rather than stepping back out of fear, he felt himself stock still, Ian took the cigarette from between his teeth with two strong fingers and placed it between Mickey's slightly parted lips, "We act like we haven't just seen every bare inch of skin that we could ever possibly show one another."

That's when Mickey took a step back, his twitching fingers twirling the smoking stick as he combed back his slicked hair with an equally shaky hand, "Isn't it interesting, how naked you can be without taking off your clothes?" Ian had lit another cigarette and was holding it up to his tilted head as he perched himself on the table where their dirty deed had just taken place and he was pondering the cracks in the ceiling in that fucking mystical way that made Mickey's teeth gnaw on the inside of his cheek, nearly ill with want at the sight of such a beautiful person pondering shit that he shouldn't be pondering, he should be on his way out the door, leaving the Milkovich house and leaving Mickey, awaiting the next time that the shorter thug would call.

"Why the fuck are you saying shit like this, man?" Mickey beckoned, rubbing his temples and putting the cigarette out in the glass ashtray by the kitchen sink. The room was once spinning, the coldness of the counter pressing up against Mickey's chest and the only sounds were from Ian's mouth, the only feelings were the ones that Ian would bring onto him, the only thoughts were those of Ian, Ian, Ian…

"Ian."

It was several hours later and the sky had retreated to below the Chicago skyline. Mickey was expecting his father's return within an hour of the last time Ian was at his house and touching his skin, but within three hours there was a call that Terry had been incarcerated and would not be returning home for a number of days, if not weeks. Mandy had been out of the house since the first sign of a clear sky made way into the cold winter. Mickey's tossing and turning in the late hours of the night (or were they the early of the morning?) proved useless as he felt himself reaching out for empty space amongst the stale smell of the sheets and his phone eventually wrapped around the small phone. His fingers effortlessly dialed a younger boy's number and he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Mick?" Ian's voice was thick with sleep. Mick's stomach swelled at the thought of those freckled eyelids being heavy, his mouth opening and closing, slick with the saliva from the previous night's rest. His hand rubbing those same tired eyes and yawning as he stretched, a green shirt gently rising over his hips as the tips of each of his perfect limps touched either edge of the small bed-

"Mickey, you there?" The tired voice woke him from another dimension.

"Yeah, yeah I'm here." He retorted, trying to sound offended and failing miserably. Thankfully, facial expressions couldn't be distinguished over the telephone, though, he was sure he could sense Ian's cocky little smile through the receiver.

"What's going on?" His voice was slowly waking up and Mick could tell from the volume of it that he was now standing in the Gallagher's bathroom, likely looking at himself in the mirror or observing the number of outfits scattered across the linoleum.

"Nothing, I uh-" Ian heard the click of a lighter and laughed to himself at the thought of him lighting a cigarette in order to avoid speaking, "Look, you wanna come over?"

"I don't know, Mick, I told Fi I would help get Carl and Debs ready for school tomorrow."

"Well where the fuck is she?"

"She's got a work retreat, Mick, fuck."

"Okay, okay," Mickey breathed, dragging a wrist across his eyes, "Well, fuck-"

Ian laughed, only further infuriating the outgoing end of this conversation all the more.

"Can I come see you?" The voice that said that shocked the two of them. Mickey cleared his throat and ran a slightly sweaty hand through his bed mussed hair, "Now?" He added.

Within a half hour, the jacket and dark wool glove clad thug was on the Gallagher's doorstep and Ian was standing in the doorway, blocking the barrier between cold and warmth, his chest heaving as though he'd just run a goddamn marathon which he likely had, knowing that smug son-of-a-bitch and how he liked to stay in shape any spare moment that he could.

"Why are you sweating like that?" Mickey shoved his way into the house and began taking off his number of layers and hanging them on the coat rack on the opposite end of the entryway, "You got someone upstairs you've been fucking?" He joked with a twang of jealousy sealed into his bottom lip which his top teeth gently gnawed as he avoided eye contact, making his way into the kitchen and fishing a beer out of the refrigerator.

"Nah," He answered after a fucking eternity, "I was doing pull-ups, and I'm pretty out of shape."

Mickey laughed, pursing his lips so as to not lose his mouthful of beer, "That's funny." He burped and slapped a curled fist against his chest, releasing one more to which Ian chuckled and leaned up against a counter, opposite the brooding brunette.

"You think I'm not?" Ian cocked his head slightly, Mickey could nearly hear his blood rush from his head to his waistline, "You think I'm fit?" He left his post at the counter and walked towards the boy, bringing a hand to either side of him and taking two steps forward so that Mickey's backside collided with the kitchen sink, Mickey turned around to look at the predicament he had gotten himself into and lifted his eyes to meet Ian's, his pupils growing wildly darker as Ian continued on his little rant, "You think I'm sexy?" He brought his lips to his ear, "You think I'm so sexy, that you'll walk nearly two miles in the middle of the night, in a _fucking Chicago winter _just to see me," He took the hand not clutching the half-finished beer and brought it to his own stomach, letting the calloused fingers drag along his thin shirt and skipping at the rivets from where his muscles gently bulged from beneath the fabric, "To see this…" He brought the fingers down to touch the skin beneath the shirt and internally burst into flames when he heard Mickey's breath catch in his throat.

"Iannnnnnnnnn!" The voice calling out was not one either of them had expected, "Iaaaaaaaaannnn!" It was Debbie, calling from her room upstairs. Ian stepped back from the obviously aroused Mickey and let his hands gently pass by his quivering sides as his lips dragged past his cheek.

As he went to walk out of the kitchen he quickly turned and smiled at the nearly melting figure, still paralyzed against the kitchen sink, "I think you like me." And took the stairs up to his still-crying baby sister, two at a time, his breath not catching in the slightest, leaving Mickey at a loss for words let alone breath, looking around in surprise and nonchalantly bringing the forgotten bottle to his lips, muttering a word that had an epitome of definitions and closeted a series of emotions but was easily said in one shaky breath rather than a speech yelled from the rooftops of Chicago, a word that was all that he could mutter in response to any form of emotion.

"_Fuck."_


End file.
